


First Words

by Lakritzwolf



Category: The Mortal Instruments (Movies), Young Hercules
Genre: M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: Prompt 156 - Soulmate AU
Relationships: Luke Garroway/Iolaus
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Winter FRE 2020





	First Words

In a world where everyone has the first words their soulmate will say to them inked on the skin of their forearm, Iolaus is cursed. It’s only a single word but definitely not ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello’, and even though his parents were trying to reassure him as a child that it would be fine, once it was legible… it really wasn’t fine. Nowhere anywhere near fine.

The fact that the soulmate words become legible upon reaching puberty made this only worse, and ever since, Iolaus is wearing a broad leather bracelet to hide the word on the inside of his wrist. He deflects every question. He doesn’t want anyone to see.

This one, single word makes him feel so awful, because who wants the first word of his soulmate to be…

 _Shit_.

Iolaus gulps down his drink and tries to tune out the conversations around him. Usually he’s all for parties, loves drinking, dancing, and the occasional hook-up with no strings attached but tonight his mood is just sour. His best friend found his soulmate only yesterday, and it’s the talk of the party.

Everyone, literally everyone, talks about the girl who looked at him and said ‘wow, nice shirt, wanna dance?’ and now the two are glued to each other by the hips and Iolaus doesn’t exist anymore.

More than one person asks him about his soulword phrase that night. Or just soulword, as it were. Iolaus huffs and avoids the question. He’s been given enough – shit, no pun intended and he hates it – about his soulword that he never, ever wants to talk about it again. Ever.

He should be happy for Hercules, he really, really should. And he is. He is also really, really jealous, has always been, whenever he had caught a look at Hercules’ forearm.

_Wow, nice shirt, wanna dance?_

And Iolaus?

_Shit._

They go on a pub crawl after that, and since Dublin has plenty of those, they’re at it for a while. Everyone gets exceedingly drunk, and that includes Iolaus, though it doesn’t improve his mood.

He lost count of the number of pubs by now, it’s after midnight, and Iolaus is, while far from being sober, not nearly drunk enough to stop caring about the fact his best friend has now someone more important, and that he, Iolaus, will forever run around with the word _Shit_ on his wrist if he doesn’t manage to find whoever is his fated person. This fated person business is overrated anyway. He values his independence and freedom and not having anyone to answer to.

But deep inside, he yearns for someone to know him, to stand by him, because somehow, this person would be a part of him without restricting him, holding him down, or forcing him into a suburban paradise with a mortgage, two cars, two dogs, a cat, and 2.3 children.

Broody as he is that evening he doesn’t quite watch where he is going, and to be honest, the five or six – or seven? - pints of Guinness sure as fuck don’t help. So he turns around from the bar, and collides with a solid wall of muscle wearing a green shirt and a leather jacket. Said green shirt is soaked with Guinness within a second.

“Shit!”

“Oh Fuck!” Iolaus jumps back, and only succeeds in pouring a bit more Guinness over the man’s front.

The man looks up, Guiness dripping from his fingers.

Iolaus’ wrist tingles.

And the eyes on that handsome face widen, just like Iolaus knows his own do. Tall, Dark and Handsome, who doesn’t seem to know what a hairbrush is, stares at Iolaus with his mouth hanging open. And then he slowly, slowly, lifts his left arm, and pushes back the sleeve of his leather jacket.

And at that moment Iolaus realises that while he thought he had it bad with his soulword….

“Uh,” he says. “Hi?”

“Hi,” Tall, Dark and Handsome replies, and wipes his fingers dry on the fabric of his jeans. “I… I’m kinda sorry about that, mate.”

“About me spilling beer on you?” Iolaus asks, tilting his head with a grin.

“About...” He gestures towards Iolaus’ arm. “About that.”

Iolaus snorts. “Yeah, I thought I had shit luck, but...” He clears his throat. “I think you had it worse.”

They stare at each other for a silent, eternal second.

“I’m Iolaus, by the way.”

“Luke.”

His smile is as bright as the sun. Baffling, how the dark and broody look vanishes in an instant and turns him into a cute six foot puppy. A six foot puppy with arms like logs, a batch of chest hair peeking out of his low neckline, shoulders broad enough to sleep on, and a face covered in scruff that has Iolaus dream about beard burns in all sorts if inappropriate places.

The thoughts about puppy eyes quickly dissipate. He wants to climb this guy like a tree. And Luke… the way Luke is letting his eyes roam makes Iolaus a little hot under his collar. He knows he’s good looking, he has a mirror, after all, but the way Luke seems to be undressing him with his eyes is a whole new different level of appreciation.

“Seems I got something to more than make up for that shitty soulword phrase,” Luke says in a low voice, and steps closer.

Trapped in his dark eyes, Iolaus tries to smile. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. I’ve been hiding that thing since I was twelve.”

“You know,” Luke then says, and it’s almost a drawl, “I would stand you a drink, but my shirt is wet and I stink of Guinness and I have to say I’d rather drink the stuff than use it as body wash.” He licks his lips, and Iolaus’ eyes follow the move of the tongue. “So… I think I’d like to go home and change.”

Iolaus nods, trying to break the hypnotic spell of Luke’s tongue and lips.

“You could… come along.” Luke’s voice drops about an octave and a half, and the low baritone vibrates through Iolaus’ chest and abdomen to settle somewhere south of his belt.

“As if I would say no to that,” Iolaus says, lowering his eyelids, and using his dimples to the best of his abilities.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Luke replies, and reaches for Iolaus’ hand.

It feels so easy, so natural, as if his fingers have been waiting his entire life to be laced together with Luke’s. His hand is warm and strong and Iolaus can’t wait to have it all over his skin, and he also is looking forward to sitting somewhere with that hand on his back, or in his hair, or-

“Iolaus?”

How and when Hercules has stepped in front of him has completely eluded Iolaus in his musings about Luke’s hands.

“Aah...” Iolaus clears his throat and tries to think of something to say.

But what is there to say, really? It’s suddenly real, there’s this gorgeous man next to him holding his hand, and the bloody, ridiculous, embarrassing soulword is finally gone, and Iolaus lets go of Luke’s hand with his heart soaring out of his chest. He has no means and no desire to control the grin that’s spreading on his face.

His fingers are only trembling a little when he unlaces the leather at his wrist, then he tears off the bracelet, and shoves it at Hercules with a grin that feels as if it’s splitting his head in half.

After a second, Hercules howls in joy and throws both arms around him. Everyone in the party joins him in cheering, and Iolaus gets so many hugs and slaps on his back that he wouldn’t be surprised if his rib cage has bruises tomorrow.

After a lot of congratulations the two manage to extricate themselves, on account of Luke’s soaked and smelly shirt.

Thankfully, Luke doesn’t live too far away, it’s a small apartment that they reach after almost climbing up an ancient, wooden staircase.

It’s weird, and it’s so natural, to be touched, to touch, to be close. He doesn’t know this man, and it should feel like a one-night-stand, entering his place, but it doesn’t. It feels like coming home.

The moment the door falls shut behind him Luke spins around, and has Iolaus pinned against the wall. Trapped under the broad expanse of Luke’s well-muscled body, Iolaus can’t say he minds.

Luke leans in, and Iolaus swallows, eyes glued to Luke’s lips.

“Hey,” Luke whispers, face inches apart.

“Hey,” Iolaus whispers back.

“Can I kiss you?” Luke’s breath is grazing Iolaus’ cheek.

“I don’t know if you can,” Iolaus replies cheekily, because he’s still Iolaus. “You can try.”

Luke huffs out a soft, low chuckle, and closes the distance. And it’s not as if Iolaus was thinking about stopping him, or evading him or do something stupid like that. He closes his eyes as their lips touch.

Luke’s lips are soft, so soft, surrounded by the soft scratch of the scruff on his face, and his strong, broad hands wander down Iolaus’ sides to rest on his hips. Iolaus closes his arms around Luke’s shoulders, burying his hands into those messy black curls, and sighs into the kiss when Luke presses closer.

“I don’t know,” Luke whispers softly against Iolaus’ lips. “I kind of want to just carry you to the bedroom, and I also kind of just want to sit down with a drink and listen to your voice for the rest of the night.”

“We can do both,” Iolaus mutters and digs his fingers deeper into Luke’s hair. “In that order.”

“Hmm.” The deep hum against the crook of his neck makes Iolaus’ skin tingle. “I like the way you’re thinking.”

Those lips against the soft skin of his neck make thinking extremely hard, and that’s not the only hard thing around here, but before Iolaus can embarrass himself with a bad pun or three, Luke is kissing him again.

Thinking becomes impossible from then on.

And really unnecessary anyway.


End file.
